


Angel of music

by Vaders_cape



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, But I am still not over Erik, Canon Typical Violence, Come At Me, Crowley is a manager, I know everybody is obsessing over Hamilton, I'm not sure yet, M/M, REALLY DESCRIPTIVE, There will probably be more characters, This is a Phantom of the Opera AU, Yes yes, oh yeah
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-05-24 14:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6157072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaders_cape/pseuds/Vaders_cape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester was given the opportunity of the lifetime to work at the National Opera House. But he was shoved away by the manager and his wife, La Abaddona, the Prima Donna. But yet, one figure of the opera house takes Sam under his wing. Who is this mysterious angel, and why does everyone believe he is so evil?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I pray not only to God, but also Jesus, that my English teacher never finds this.

Sam Winchester was absolutely done with the coffee machine.  
  
He worked at a café, right around the corner from the National Opera House. Theatre-goers and actors alike would come to the small café to cebrbrate a show well done. Or at least, that’s what was said. Sam really never had much time to go to an opera show, usually working to make ends meet. Sure, his job really had no real enjoyment or draw, but it paid, so Sam stayed. But his real passion was music.  
Sam had very little memories from he was a child, with his original family, before Azazel took him in after his family died. But one his strongest was his mother, singing a lullaby. He wasn’t even sure what the song was, but it was still very beautiful. Azazel really didn’t care much for music, but didn’t mind it either. But for some reason, the National Opera House was probably one of the things permanently on his mind. It was a faraway dream of his to work there, and be a singer. But, Sam understood that dreams rarely came true, so he shoved it to the back of his mind and keep working.  
  
On that day, the coffee machine was being absolutely awful. Barely any coffee was coming out, and the stuff that did was full of coffee grits. Sam tried to fix it, but the more he tried, the more frustrated he became. As he worked he began absentmindedly humming a tune softly, where then it just developed into Sam singing, abet quietly still, as he worked. Music always helped him focus. Perhaps a little too much, as he missed the sound of the bell that signaled the entry of a customer. It wasn’t until the customer briefly coughed that Sam realized they were there. “Oh crap, I’m so sorry for making you wait,” Sam said, looking embarrassed. “So, may I take your order?” He added quickly.  
  
“Actually, I’m Gabriel Trickster, a talent scout for the National Opera. I was just walking along, going for some caffeine, when I hear this amazing melody coming from this place. And what do I find but probably one of the best voices I've heard fixing a coffee machine,” the scout said, smiling. Sam was blushing from the compliment.  
  
“Thank you for the compliment, but I really don’t think that I’m cut out for the opera,” Sam stated, facing the rather short man.  
“That is a huge lie, kiddo. You would be great. Plus, if you get in, I get a bonus on my paycheck,” Mr. Trickster rubbed his hands together like a cartoon villain.  
  
“Well, Mr. Trickster-”  
  
“Call me Gabriel, kiddo. No formalities here.”  
  
“Well, Gabriel, I really can’t miss work. Rent day is coming up soon, and I need everyday to come up with the money necessary to pay,” Sam said, even though every bit of his body called to say, “Yes!” to Gabriel’s offer.  
  
“Open auditions are only one day, would one single, super small, day really make a difference? Plus, as an opera singer, you’d make much more than any barista,” Gabriel expressed. He was right, Sam thought. Maybe, just one day wouldn’t hurt.  
  
“Well, one day wouldn’t be such a huge sacrifice, right?” Sam pointed out, seconding Gabriel’s thoughts.  
  
“Exactly! So you’re in?” Gabriel asked, trying to clarify what Sam said.  
  
“I suppose.”  
  
“Awesome! So, kiddo, I never did get your name. I need it, you know, paperwork and stuff,” Gabriel requested, looking up at Sam.  
“It’s Sam. Sam Winchester.”  
  
Gabriel's eyes widened at the sound of Sam’s surname. “Winchester?” he inquired, “Like Dean Winchester, wealthy gun tycoon and patron of the opera?”  
  
“I’m not sure. I was adopted at a young age, so I could be a distant cousin or something,” Sam replied. He never knew much about his family, just that he was the sole survivor of a terrible fire.  
  
“If that’s your name, then I’d go with a stage name to keep the judges unbiased. Just sayin’,” Gabriel offered. It was actually a really good idea, Sam figured. He’d just use Azazel’s surname instead of his original family’s.  
  
“What day are auditions?” Sam inquired, trying to gauge how much time he’d have to prepare. He really had only the barest idea of how auditions worked, but he knew that there was no way in hell he was ready to audition for a company. He’d had only musical training from being in school musicals and choir, but other than that, nothing special.  
  
“Tomorrow,” Gabriel stated sharply.  
  
“Tomorrow?” Sam asked, hoping that he'd heard wrong.  
  
“Tomorrow.” Gabriel repeated.  
  
Well, then. Sam really had no time to prepare. But, he’d try anyway. “Well then, what time do I show up?”  
  
Gabriel had a cheshire grin on his face and said, “Ten o’clock in the morning, in front of the opera house. I’ll be waiting.

Sam stood at the foot of the steps of the National Opera House. He was sure he’d wake up and this would have all ended up being some dream. But no, it was real, and Sam finally had a chance of achieving his dreams. He spotted Gabriel and waved. Gabriel waved back as Sam climbed the stairs to go meet him. Sam sprinted up the stairs, clutching the music binder he had tightly. “Sam! Over here!” Gabriel shouted, trying to get Sam over to where he was. When he got to the top of the stairs, he ran straight to where Gabriel was. “Hey, kiddo! Ready to knock some people outta the ballpark?” Gabriel said, clapping Sam on the shoulder.  
  
“I doubt that'll be the case, but yeah,” Sam said.  
  
“Sure, whatever. Come on, auditions are this way!” Gabriel ran ahead through the large doors at the front. Sam followed him in.  
When Sam did get in, he was taken aback at just how amazing this place was. The polished pale marble floor reflected the glow of the chandelier-like light fixtures above. The grand staircase was made of the same marble, with golden railings. The walls and ceiling were decorated with murals reminiscent of Renaissance paintings, with red panels lining the walls as well. There were extensions of small balconies from the second floor, the creme plaster decorated with gold accents. And then, at the top of the stairs, right in the middle, was the entrance to the theatre itself. Sam was speechless. This place was everything he dreamed it would be, and more. “Coming, kiddo? Auditions are this way,” Gabriel said, shaking his head at Sam’s expression of absolute wonder.  
  
It suddenly came back to Sam the reason he was here. He quickly ran after Gabriel, catching up in no time. Gabriel led Sam though the halls, and into the back part of the theatre. Sam thought that auditions would draw more people, and would be held in a frontal part of the building, but he said nothing.  
  
Finally Gabriel stopped them outside an office. Gabriel then knocked on the door, rapping on it thrice with his knuckles. A short bearded man opened the door and asked, “What is it? Can’t you tell I’m trying to run a theatre?”  
  
Gabriel did not seem phased, and replied, “Mr. Crowley, this is-”  
  
He was cut off by Crowley, who jabbed in, “Gabriel, I do not care for any of your strays you picked up. This is a fine establishment, not some guess-and-check run for you to pick up extra cash. Now take yourself and this moose and get out.”  
  
“Mr. Crowley, please,” Gabriel interjected, “Sam has a very talented, if a bit raw, voice. La Abaddonna is always ripping into the Primo Uomos you hire.”  
  
“What La Abaddonna does is not your concern. When I need new singers, I will ask you to find me new singers. But,” Crowley paused, looking Sam over, “You did bring me a very good workhorse. Tell me, what is your name?”  
  
Sam was taken aback by the manager’s loud and bully-like nature, but swiftly replied, “It’s Sam. Sam Colt.”  
  
“Well then, Sam Colt, how fast can you transfer jobs?” Crowley inquired with an air of disinterest  
  
“I can have the papers by tomorrow,” Sam answered, hoping that was satisfactory.  
  
“Good enough. I'll write you down as employed then,” Crowley started searching for a pen in his pockets.  
  
“What job am I filling?” Sam asked, confused.  
  
“I need a new stagehand and costume assistant. The last one in that position lost his job… unexpectedly,” Crowley pulled a pen out from his pocket along with some paper and started scribbling down.  
  
Sam was a bit disappointed that the manager didn’t even want to hear him sing, but was thrilled that he got a job anyway. “When do I start?” Sam asked.  
  
“Can you start now? There are costumes that need to be taken care of immediately,” Crowley replied, putting the pen and paper back in his pocket.  
“Of course, Mr. Crowley,” Sam answered, “Where are they?”  
  
“Go down this hallway, take a left, then a right. You'll see them. Now, shoo!” Crowley sent Sam off. “And Gabriel, you can leave as well.”  
Gabriel stormed off, angered by Crowley’s huge waste of talent, while Sam followed the directions Crowley gave him. Crowley simply went back into his office and shut the door.

Sam found the pile of costumes waiting to be checked at the end of the hall. He wheeled over the costume rack full of empty hangers and started to hang the costumes up. He worked rhythmically, checking the costume for rips and such before hanging it back up or placing it in the mending pile. Once again that day, he began to hum a simple tune, to concentrate. It turned into Sam singing softly. But not soft enough to escape the ears of one listener.  
  
This said listener had hidden behind a wall to listen and find out who this newcomer was. He finally spotted the singer, hanging the costumes. Crowley really was an idiot, he thought to himself, to have missed out on such great talent. The singer himself was very tall and built of lean muscle, no wonder Crowley shoved him into a labor position. But something about him was… off. Not just the amazing voice, but there was certainly something special about him. And well, the Phantom of the Opera, Lucifer himself, would be sure to find out. But first, Lucifer needed to introduce himself to the singer, and that would be a much bigger challenge.


	2. Chapter 2

It was three days into his new job when Sam met Charlie.

Sam was working on repairing some burn marks on a set piece when the cheerful redhead popped up behind him and almost made him drop his can of paint. “Heya, I’m Charlie Bradbury, I’m the lights and sound director. You know, all the fun techie stuff. Anyway, do you think you could help me move some boxes and stuff? Unless you’re super busy. I know how Mr. Crowley can be sometimes and-”

Sam cut her off saying, “I’m not busy. Of course I can help.”

Charlie smiled again and lead Sam back to where her boxes were. She rambled on about light and sound work, which was fairly interesting. Then Charlie looked down at her clipboard to see where the boxes were supposed to go, and gulped, stopping straight in her tracks. Sam almost knocked her over before stopping. “What’s wrong, Charlie?” he asked, highly confused.

“These boxes are supposed to go to the,” Charlie gulped,”catacombs.”

Sam chuckled. “What? Is there a big scary ghost down there?”

“Yes,” Charlie squeaked out.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Okay, I get it, Screw with the new guy, tell him there’s a ghost. But seriously, Charlie, is there really?”

Charlie nodded, eyes wide. “They call him the Phantom of the Opera. He haunts the theatre, having been here as long as the building itself. No one knows who he is, just he is very picky with musicians.”

Sam scoffed. “A ghostly musical snob?”

Charlie shushed him. “You shouldn’t speak of the Phantom in that tone. He hears everything. If he doesn’t like a singer, accidents start happening around them. La Abbadonna, the prima donna here, has so many accidents around her it’s ridiculous. Like those burns you were repairing? Those were from a cannon firing. It was filled with paper. But someone rigged the firing mechanism to work by flint and it lit the paper on fire. It lit La Abbadonna’s dress on fire, and burned the set. Most would have quit after the amount of incidents she’s had, but she stays. The Phantom truly doesn’t like her.”

“So the Phantom is the biggest judge in the opera?” Sam asked.

Charlie nodded. “They say the Phantom is always looking to find something. Whether a person, or a particular voice, we don’t know.”

“Has anyone ever seen the Phantom?”

Charlie pulled out her phone. “Yeah. You might see him while you’re working. I have pictures,” she said, pulling up a picture of the balcony. It was hard to make out, but you could sort of make out a man's figure. Then she flicked through the images to another. This one was a bit clearer. This one looked like it was taken from the special effects booth. The image was of a person, wearing all black attire and there was what appeared to be a white mask covering the left side and top half of their face. They seemed to be inspecting the scenery. 

Sam shook his head at the photos. “Could you ever believe that maybe, just maybe, it was just an actor practising?”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “No, really? That’s what I thought at first, but then, I compared this photo to the one at the Phantom’s Balcony.”

Sam was confused. “But you said he lived in the catacombs?”

Charlie shook her head no. “He usually resides in the catacombs, well, that’s what we think, but for almost as long as this building has held operas, one balcony has been locked and roped off. The legend is that after the opening night of the first opera held here, the phantom made his first appearance. The quote is, ‘He flew in with wings of light, but they were covered in soot and burns,’ whatever that means. Anyway, so the Phantom came in, and apparently started clapping. He told them it was a beautiful show, and he would be very happy to see many more. One of the actresses asked him where he watched it from, as all the seating had been filled. Apparently, he turned and pointed at the balcony that had not been finished in time for opening night, and as such was roped off. He said that, despite not being finished, it was a very good seat, and asked if he could have it for another show. The manager, who was absolutely terrified, promised him that they would finish it, and then permanently rope it off for him. The Phantom told him that finishing it was not needed, it was fine as is, and just told him to leave it roped off. The manager agreed, not knowing what else to do. After that, the Phantom disappeared, leaving behind only the mask he had been wearing, and a feather. I guess it was from his cloak. The manager did as asked, and after his successor took over the opera house, he found the mask and feather in a locked chest. He decided to put these items on display outside the Phantom’s Balcony. After this, a tradition developed that if you caught a good image of the Phantom, there was a board you could put it on. Some of these images are from as far back as the mid 1800’s, from set photographers. They caught him, and he stayed still for them to get an image. I think he likes the attention.”

Sam took the story in. This was certainly a deep rooted myth with the workers here. This mysterious Phantom had his interest. “Does he show himself to everyone?”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Show himself? Only a few times through the theater’s history. The images collected from are chance meetings. You know, we were doing whatever we do at that time and we look up and there he is. When I took these pictures, I don’t think he even knew I was there. Showing himself usually means that he went out of his way to find you.”

“Who were the people who saw him?” Sam inquired. This wasn’t a real thing, but Azazel had raised him on a diet of ghost stories, so he at least wanted to know all the details. But, then again, it was just a story.

“Those people were few and far between. Most were male, although some females did say he came to them. All the visits essentially followed the same script. He’d lure you down to the catacombs with beautiful music, and ask you to sing for him. Then, when you finished, you saw black and would wake up at the entrance of the catacombs. All those who were called to him woke up with a rose next to them. And then they never saw him again,” Charlie explained. 

Sam attempted to figure this out. “So he calls you if you are selected, and then you never get another sight of him?”

Charlie nodded. “Yup. No one knows why he does it. It’s just the Phantom.”

“Did you ever consider that it was multiple people over the years? I mean, no one can live for two hundred years. It’s impossible,” Sam reasoned.

“Um, the answer to that question is in the name? As in, Phantom? You know, an immortal spiritual entity?” Charlie explained like she was talking to a five year old.

Sam rolled his eyes at her. “Sorry for helping. You think I’ll ever catch sight of him?”

“I’m positive you will. Almost everyone here has seen him once or twice,” Charlie lifted her boxes again. “Now, let’s go and put these away.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam and Charlie arrived at the entrance to the catacombs when Charlie received a call. “Can you take these downstairs? The reception is total crap down here. I think my partner needs help again,” Charlie explained setting down her box. Sam just nodded and started to walk down the stairs.

There was barely any light emitting from the fluorescents overhead. Sam kept walking until he found what appeared to be a one way turn. The end of the hall had been blocked off, presumably to keep underground flooding from getting to the costumes. Sam followed the path into the storage room. It was hewn out of the rock underneath the theater, and full of boxes. Some, no, most seemed to be antique boxes, and judging by the thick layer of dust, Sam observed, they had not been moved for a long time. Sam set his boxes down where they would be stable, and went out. He figured it was just his mind playing tricks on him from Charlie’s ghost stories, but he swore he heard music. 

Sam ascended the stairs only to find Charlie still out on her phone call. Sam debated waiting for her, but ultimately decided that if she needed more help, she'd be able to find him. He was going to go back the way he came, but then remembered it would be faster if he just cut across the balcony over the lobby. And he could see the Phantom’s Balcony on the way.

Sam finally got back out to the lobby, and he walked up the stairs to the balcony. He briskly walked along until he found the display case outside the closed-off balcony. Inside was a mask, designed to cover the left side of the wearer’s face. Painted on it was a design of roses and thorns. It was a small scroll down the outer edge. And laying next to it was a feather, unlike any Sam had ever seen. It was luminescent, and captured all the colors of a sunrise. And it was quite large as well. Sam had been admiring the display case when a shorter bearded man came and stood next to him. He didn’t even notice until the man spoke, saying,”You know, even after almost two centuries, no one has found what chemical process changed the feather, or what bird it comes from.”

Sam looked to the side to see who was talking. “It looks like it came from a bird of prey, and yet, it’s far too big to be one. Odd.”

The man nodded and extended a hand. “Chuck Shurley, ex-manager of this establishment.”

“Sam Winchester, stagehand and costume helper,” Sam replied, shaking his hand. 

“Winchester? Like Dean Winchester?” Chuck asked.

Sam could have slapped himself for making such a stupid mistake. This guy used to be the manager here. He probably knew Dean Winchester. “No, completely different. Never met the guy.”

Chuck just shrugged it off. “Well, Sam, how long have you been working here?”

“Three weeks,” Sam swiftly replied.

“Did Gabriel bring you in? Only to have Crowley shove you into a hard labor position?” Chuck asked.

Sam sputtered. “H-how'd you know?”

Chuck simply chuckled. “This place has a script, and I doubt those two would deviate from it. Don’ t worry. Someone will be sick, and you’'ll get your chance.”

Sam smiled a small bit. “Thanks for the boost of confidence, but I doubt that would happen.”

“It happens more than you would think,” Chuck warned. “Well, I guess I’'ll be seeing you, Sam. Have a nice day,” he said as he started walking away.

“You too,” Sam mumbled as he went back to work. He worked on the set piece until his shift was over, and as he left, he missed the single feather laying on the floor, almost identical to the one in the display case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might have figured, I'm putting some aspects of the supernatural in this story. Also, I'm thinking I'll update every other week. With school and all, it seems the best. Thoughts are appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

It was only a month after the mysterious new worker appeared when Chuck came down to warn Lucifer.

Lucifer had simply been keeping to himself for most of the time, working through his music and such, when Chuck came storming through the gate to Lucifer’s small island in the lowest level of the catacombs.

Chuck came over to where Lucifer was sitting on his piano bench when he held up three softly colored, shimmering feathers. He crossed his arms and simply said, “Explain. Now.”

Lucifer simply raised an eyebrow and gestured to his large wings, which matched the feathers exactly. Chuck rolled his eyes and sighed. “Lucifer, please don’t. Sam Winchester, the new kid, gave these to me asking if I knew what costume they matched. Apparently after every shift he’s worked, he’s found feathers like these laying around.”

Lucifer shrugged. “He’s new and interesting. And he doesn't notice me. He’s a nice change of pace.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Luce, but this one cannot be messed with. No kidnapping, no ‘voice searching’, and no more hanging around him,” Chuck stated, setting the feathers down. 

Lucifer was confused and just a tad annoyed. “Why? You, or any of your predecessors never gave a damn who I found to be entertaining before.”

“Because I have reason to believe this one is related to Dean Winchester.”

Lucifer had to check what he was hearing. “What?”

“I think Sam Winchester is closely related to Dean Winchester. I wouldn't be surprised if he was Dean’s long lost brother.”

Lucifer stayed silent for a minute. Was that why the singer, Sam, he corrected himself, his name is Sam, was so enthralling? No, that wasn't it. He was still very special, and not just because he had Winchester blood. Lucifer spoke up to Chuck. “Why can't I talk to him? He doesn’t know he’s related to Dean, right?”

Chuck sighed. “No, he doesn't. But if Dean comes back, and finds that the Phantom of the Opera he has been trying to get rid of for years is screwing with his lost brother’s head, he wouldn’t be happy.”

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “What, more salt lines? Some Devil’s Traps?”

“Can you please be serious about this? You know we can't hold him off of what you really are for much longer,” Chuck told him. “You need to stay out of the light.”

“But it’s so dark down here! And pretty lonely…” Lucifer mumbled out the last part. He could spend time in solitude, but he didn't like it at all. Music filled the void, sort of, but not even the finest piece could bring forth the emotion he felt when talking to an actual living being. Chuck was his most frequent visitor, but even he stayed out of the catacombs as much as possible. 

Chuck simply shook his head. “I know, it’s bad down here. But no one will take kindly to seeing you above ground. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”

Lucifer understood what Chuck was saying. He was a freak, a monster. He didn’t belong in the light. Maybe once, long, long ago, but not now. And no one would ever see him beyond that. Chuck gently walked forward and lifted Lucifer’s face. “I need to see how your face is. Can you remove the mask?” Lucifer understood that wasn't a question, it was an order. And so, he removed the mask covering the left of his face. 

“It’s getting better. Have you been trying to heal it?” Chuck asked. It was a lie and Lucifer knew it. None the less, he played along.

“Yeah. I was hoping so,” Lucifer said, touching the left side of his face. It was so bad, Lucifer couldn't look in a mirror without his mask on anymore. But, none the less, he dutifully tried to heal it each day. It never worked. As soon as Chuck handed him back the mask, he put it back on.

“Remember, leave Sam alone. I don’t want to hear another story from him about how he thinks some sort of bird is stalking him,” Chuck laughed a bit as he left. Lucifer didn't understand the humor at it, but shrugged it off. 

As soon as Chuck was gone, Lucifer stood up from the bench he was sitting on and stretched his wings. Once they glimmered with colors that made the most beautiful sunrise look like it was greyscale. Over the years they had faded to a mere shadow of what they once were. He folded them back in, grabbed his cloak to cover them, and went out to the canals. Screw Chuck, he was going to go see Sam.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Lucifer finally wound his way through the opera house’s underground maze of canals, he found Sam repairing another set piece and singing softly. In his entire time at this place, he’d never heard such a voice. Why the hell Crowley turned him away was beyond his comprehension. Sam was softly singing an older song, one that was quite popular many years ago. Lucifer knew it, and could barely resist joining in. As Sam moved from one set piece to another, Lucifer shifted hiding places as well.

As he got more into his work, Sam changed songs. It was still an older piece, but this one was ancient compared to the other one. This song was published and popularized around the time the opera house was built, and the last time Lucifer had seen what the world really was. As such it carried many memories for him, and this time, he gave into his desires and started to softly sing along. 

About halfway through the song, Sam noticed he had a partner singing along with him. He paused and called out, “Hello?” A resounding silence was his only reply. It was probably just some other worker screwing with him. Although, he did note that they did have a beautiful voice. 

Sam kept working, and eventually picked up the same song again. Soon, the partner he had before joined in. Sam noticed, and kept singing, setting down his tools to follow the voice. Some part of his mind whispered that this was a bad idea, but soon it was drowned out by the hypnotic music. He kept following the voice, eventually being lead to an old part of the theater, where all the unused original dressing rooms were kept. One door had been opened, and Sam walked in.

The lush blood red furniture and silver vanity accented the white walls decorated with scrolls of gold vines. On the wall, there was a large full length mirror. The song Sam was singing had ended, but the other voice had kept singing, and now Sam could hear faint notes on a piano. And now the music seemed to be leading him to the mirror. Sam walked forward, until he was only a few inches from the mirror, and gently placed his hand in the center of the mirror. To his shock, the glass swung from the frame, revealing a long dark corridor, graced with the deep hypnotic music. Sam stood still for a moment, debating what to do, then he stepped through the door. 

The dark corridor was damp and musty. The old brick walls were wet with evaporated water from the underground canal system. Sam walked slowly, trying to find the source of the music. The tunnels got darker as he walked on. Sam took so many turns searching for the source of the music, he was positive he was completely lost. He kept wandering, remembering Charlie’s story about the Phantom’s hypnotic melodies. If that was what it was, then Sam was in deep trouble. 

Sam eventually came to a spiral staircase, and he made the mistake of looking down. It was pitch dark, and had no sight of a landing. The only source of light Sam had was a dim oil lamp he had unhooked from the wall. The mysterious song faintly resounded from the bottom of the stairs, and there was no way Sam came this far to give up. So he took a deep breath, and started down the stairs. 

It was an extremely long way down the stairs, and the oil was almost out by the time he had arrived at the final step. He held the lamp up, seeing a gate at the end of a tunnel. Only obstacle was a large canal blocking the way. There was a small boat floating not far off, and Sam tried to get to it. This however, did not happen without at least half of Sam’s body getting completely soaked. Oh well. But he did finally get the boat, and he got in, picking up the oar. He rowed himself over to the gate, which was on a stone landing. Sam got out of the boat, and gently pushed on the rusty gate, opening it.

He walked in, seeing many things, but the main object of his attention was the large piano, where someone was sitting. Someone with a mask covering almost half their face. Someone who resembled the Phantom of the Opera far too much for Sam’s liking. The Phantom finished the piece, and featured for Sam to come over to where he was sitting. Sam cautiously approached, and stood a few feet from the Phantom. The Phantom began to play another piece, a gentle one Sam recognized, it was an old lullaby. As the Phantom played, he began to sing. And he was absolutely amazing. After a phrase, he stopped. “Your turn,” he said, looking up at Sam. Sam shifted uncomfortably, but sang the part anyway. 

After Sam finished the phrase, he paused. “Your diction is good, but could be better. You should work on projection, but that is an issue many have without performing with an audience. Or when they're nervous. Not a large issue. Let’s go on,” he commented, before playing the phrase he had already, and adding another onto it. He paused, and Sam repeated what was played. This went on for a while, until Sam finally got through all the verses. He was bone tired at that time, and was going to fall on his feet. Finally the Phantom said, “Enough. Rest,” he pointed at a chair on the other side of the piano. Sam collapsed into it, and soon fell asleep to the quiet song of the Phantom’s piano.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions, comments, and concerns can go to the box below or to my tumblr: http://missmarvelandothers.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mother of Chuck, it's been a while. So sorry for being late.

When Sam woke up, he had a pain in his neck and no idea where he was.  
  
He opened his eyes, taking in the scenery. He was in one of the older unused dressing rooms and was laying on a couch that was probably a nest to multiple families of bugs and dust bunnies. He remembered coming in here before... before... before what? Sam couldn't remember a damn thing about why he was in here. Had someone brought in alchohol? No, there was a dsitinct lack of a headache and nausea, sure signs of a hangover. Did he come in and fall asleep? Sam did remember it being quite late last time he checked a clock, so maybe that was the explaination? That must be it. He wandered around, found a quiet place, and fell asleep. Simple as that.  
  
Sam started to get up, but just as he was about to stand, something fell off the couch onto the floor. He looked down and picked it up. It was a small bundle of three things tied together with white ribbon; a deep red rose, a large iridescent pale feather, and a folded note of creme colored paper. While these things didn't seem to be connected, after a few seconds it fit together in Sam's mind, and he suddenly remembered what happened last night.  
  
Oh god, why? Why did the Phantom, ghost, whatever, pick him? He was a stagehand, not a singer, as high as his dreams were. And what did all these goddamn feathers have to do with anything? Or better yet, where were they coming from? They didn't come from any sort of bird Sam had ever seen or heard of, and apparently no chemical process could replicate it. This is leaving out the fact after every single shift he'd worked, Sam found one or two of these feathers.  
  
Finally, Sam untied the ribbon and pulled the note off. It was written in red ink, with a very hard to read scrawl. The words written on it were Come back here at eight am tomorrow. I will be waiting. It had been left unsigned, but Sam knew who it was from.  
Sam stood up and walked to the mirror. He remembered how it let him pass through. He gently placed his hand on the mirror and pushed.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Placing both hands on the mirror, he pushed again.  
  
Still nothing.  
  
Sam let go, and walked back to where he had been sitting and picked up the note he had been left with. Rereading it, he debated going. He had heard what the Phantom had done, and it was dangerous. But, Sam was still very curious of the Phantom. He had this burning desire to go and find out more about the mysterious entity. Leaving that descision for later, he placed the note in his pocket and reached down to pick up the rose and feather, then turned to leave.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The next day, Sam walked into the old dressing room at the hour he had been requested at. No one was there. Maybe it was just some prank. Sam turned to leave, then heard a voice say, "Right on time. Good job."  
  
Sam spun around and saw a new figure in the vanity chair. The figure was male, wearing a mostly black outfit, with elements that made Sam place the era it came from around the mid 1800's. It was a gentleman's evening wear, complete with a thick black cape draped over his shoulders. The man stood and bowed formally. "I wasn't sure you were coming. Most don't. I admire your bravery."  
  
Sam wasn't sure how to respond to such a formal introduction. "Um, thank you. Did I ever tell you my name? I'm Sam."  
  
The man smiled at his response. "Lovely name. Mine is Lucifer."  
  
"Like the angel?" For some reason, after all the stories were told, Sam still affiliated Lucifer with angels, not demons. Sam also remembered something about the fallen angel once holding the position of the Angel of Music.   
  
Lucifer nodded. "Yes, like the angel."  
  
They stood in silence for a moment, waiting for each other to make a move when Lucifer slowly reached out to Sam. Sam, on instinct, recoiled almost immedietly. Lucifer almost looked hurt when Sam backed away. But no. Wasn't that Phantom just that, a phantom? Just some sort of...monster. But, for a monster, he was very convincing.  
  
"Please, Sam. I want to make you a star. I would never lie to you. I will never hurt you, or your beautiful voice. Just say yes," Lucifer pleaded.  
  
Even though Sam wanted to tell him yes, he couldn't. "So? For you, it all comes down to my voice. You'd use me. No."  
  
"Then let me train you. Only a single hour each day during the morning. Nothing more," Lucifer asked. It seemed a simple offer.  
  
But Sam wasn't buying it. If there was anything his father taught him, it was everyhing came with a price. Good or bad, there was something paid for each. That's what Azazel always told him. And so, he asked. "What's the price?"  
  
Clearly Lucifer was confused. "What price? Just sing. That's all."  
  
Sam pondered the offer. If it really brought his dream that much closer, then he truly had no idea how to refuse. "Fine. I'll take your lessons."  
  
Lucifer's face subtly lit up when Sam accepted his offer. "Wonderful. I do believe we'll start tomorrow. This meeting has proved productive. That appears to be all, so I suppose this is a farewell for now."  
  
"Wait," Sam stopped him. "I have a question."  
  
"Ask away."  
  
"Where do all those feathers keep coming from? I figured they were from you, but where do you get them? Do you have a ghost bird as a companion or something?"  
Lucifer smiled and chuckled. "That's your question? Well, Sam, that's just another mystery you'll have to unravel yourself."  
  
"What do you mean another- Hey!" As soon as Sam blinked, Lucifer was gone. "Well, I didn't think I was that bad of company." Sam turned to leave, planning to return at the same time the next day.  
  
As Sam was just leaving after the day's work, he was stopped by the manager, Crowley. "Colt!" It took Sam a moment to recognize that he was talking to him, as he forgot that Crowley had been under the understanding that Sam's last name was Colt, not Winchester.  
  
"Yes, sir?" Sam answered the call, setting down his paintbrush.  
"I need you to give these prints to Gadreel Kiel. He's the head set designer," Crowley was holding out a stack of papers.  
  
Sam took them, and glanced at the top page. "Wow, these are something. He did these?"  
"Well, he is the, I don't know, bloody set designer and his name is on the goddamn papers. But, they do have Abby's and my edits," Crowley said.  
  
Sam pondered asking who Abby, before making the link to La Abbadonna, the prima donna and Crowley's wife. It was said she held more power in the opera house than her husband. Finally, Sam nodded, and turned to leave. "I need those to Gadreel as soon as you can. The dumbass Winchester is coming, and I need everything to be perfect."  
  
Sam paused at the mention. "You mean Dean Winchester?"  
  
"I'm not aware of any other living members of the family. Now, scat!" Crowley shoved him along.  
  
Sam ran with the papers, to the second level of the theater. He looked for the office, and knocked. A call of "Come in," was his response. Sam opened the door and saw a man pouring over documents.  
  
"Mr. Kiel?" Sam asked quietly, standing in the doorway.  
  
"Call me Gadreel. And you?"  
  
"Um, my name's Sam," Sam replied. "Mr. Crowley sent these up for you." He held out the papers.  
  
"Ah! I was expecting those. Thank you, Sam." Gadreel took the papers. "You seem new. How long have you worked here?"  
  
"Only about a month," Sam answered. Gadreel nodded, looking through the papers.  
  
"Thank you. I was just curious," Gadreel said, not looking up. Sam took that as a way of saying that he should leave, so he let himself out.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Gadreel looked through Crowley's notes and sighed. He knew it was for a benefit hosted by Dean Winchester, but still. Plus, some of these requests were absolutely ridiculous. Didn't Abby, or La Abbadonna as she corrected him again and again, see what happened to her dress when real fire was on stage? Then why was she requesting it now? These new managers were so confusing. Gadreel preferred it when Chuck was still in charge. Chuck would make the simplest of suggestions, mostly just color palettes, or a bush or vine here and there. When Crowley and Abby came, they turned the whole place upside down.  
  
Speaking of the demonic manager, Crowley walzed into Gadreel's office. "Hello, Gadreel. I see you got your edited drafts? Lovely." Gadreel was going to say something about the edits when Crowley started talking again. "Now, can you tell me why box number five is being a waste of space and costing us money?"  
  
"I'm not sure what you mean by costing money, Crowley," Gadreel said, confused.  
  
"Don't be stupid. People want seats, that box has very good seats that are always vacant. But when people can't get those seats, they don't pay for them. We're loosing profit. Simple enough?" Crowley explained it like he was talking to a preschooler.  
  
"Well, sir, the box has been roped off since the beginning of the shows at the Opera House. No one's sure if it was ever finished, or even if it's structurally sound."  
  
Crowley rolled his eyes. "Then why the hell won't any of you infernal vermin I call workers go and inspect it?"  
  
Gadreel looked at Crowley with the most serious look on his face. "They won't go because of the ghost."  
  
Crowley sighed at Gadreel. "Please, Gadreel. I know you're one of those lunatic artists," Gadreel remained as stoic as he could at the insult, but his eyes hardened just the tiniest bit,"But this is no time for one of your flights of fancy."  
  
Gadreel gritted his teeth. "Sir, I'm being as serious as I can. The reason no one is going to that balcony is it's reserved for the Phantom."  
  
Crowley spun on his heel and walked to the door. "I will come back in an hour. By then I hope whatever psychotic break you're having will be done by then," he snarled, waltzing out the door.  
  
Gadreel put his face in his hands. Crowley would need to learn the Phantom was real, or everyone would feel the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, contact me at my Tumblr: http://missmarvelandothers.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

It was three months later when the gala was finally held, and everyone was freaking out.

The day of the performance, the lead tenor for the performance of Faust had gotten a bad case of the flu. Crowley was nothing short of extremely enraged. They had no replacement, Abbadonna hadn't choosen an understudy for the role of Faust that was up to her standards. If this was any other show being performed, then Crowley would have just grabbed another singer and told Abby to stop complaining. But all singers were needed in the show's large chorus. So Crowley was stuck. This was his only chance to secure the patronage of Dean Winchester. He was one of the opera's wealthiest patrons, and was extremely influential. After the change in management, Crowley really needed to impress him.

Crowley was angrily pacing behind the seats, watching the stage crew set up for the gala. It was taking place in the private rooms, but the main lobby was needing to be decorated as well. After all, first impressions were everything. 

One of the stage hands walked past, carrying a box of banners. Crowley recognized him as Sam Colt. The tall man stumbled on the leg of one of the seats, fell, and spilled his things everywhere. He set quickly to picking up the items, filled with mumbled apologies. 

Crowley remembered how he had even hired Sam Colt, remembering that Gabriel brought him in to be a singer. Most of them, however terrible they were, had had voice lessons before. Plus, how could Abbadonna complain with a mere ameteur in the other leading role. There was no chance for her to be overtaken, it might even make her look better in comparison. So, just as the other man had turned to leave, Crowley stopped him with a call of, "Colt! Stop and listen."

Sam turned around, confused and slightly scared. "Yes, sir?" he asked, clearly trying to shorten himself, whether out of timidness or finding it easier to speak to Crowley. 

"If my memory serves correct, dear Gabriel brought you in to sing for Opera. Well, here's your chance. My Faust is home sick, and I don't have an understudy. So, you're up," Crowley said, crossing his arms.

To say Sam was surprised would be an understatement. He almost dropped his box of items again, before replying. "But sir-"

Crowley interupted him, saying, "I don't take excuses, Colt. You have until seven tonight to learn your part and lines. So, yes or no?"

Sam gulped and said, "Yes."

Crowley clapped his hands together. "Absolutely glorious. There are scripts backstage." With that, he turned and walked away, praying to any listening deity that Colt didn't screw up.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam was absolutely terrified. He had been watching the show from behind stage, and had quite a bit of it memorized. The singing was what frightened him the most. That, and La Abbadonna refused to hold a rehearsal saying that he would be able to do it during the performance. That woman was insane. And here he was, getting dressed for his first, and likely last, show on this stage. They had been out of dressing rooms in the wing on the west side, and gave him a room on the east side. Coincidently, it had been the meeting place where Sam had met the Phantom. Sam wondered if he would be watching the performance. 

Sam pulled on the black coat of his costume, designed to compliment the all red attire of Mephistopheles. He pinned the white corsage on his left side, and glaced in the mirror. Considering the circumstances, Sam was impressed they could find a costume that fit him, given his height of 6'4". Granted, the costume of Faust was much simpler and more common than that of Marguerite or Mephistopheles, but still. He smoothed out the front of his coat and left for the stage.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean Winchester was completely and totally bored within five minutes of entering that theater. He knew that donating to this place gave him and his business positive publicity, and he appreciated the artists here, but he hated the opera. Uncle Bobby was, luckily, there to keep him focused. Dean had already met the new manager. He was pretty sure this one was even shorter than the previous one, and was twice as annoying. What was his name? Crow, Crooney, Crowley. Whatever. The Winchesters had a box reserved, in a prime location. Through the show was of one that Dean had seen many a time, the story of a man who sells his soul toa demon to get a new chance at a life, which Dean could confirm was a load of crap, Dean had heard a rumor that the lead, Faust, was sick. They apparently had to get one of the stagehands, as everyone was occupied in the choir, to sing the part. Dean wasn't sure the last part was true, even the most careless manager wouldn't do that. But, Dean was still curious to see how this show turned out as he sat down and watched the curtain rise.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first act was as expected. Mephistopheles sang the prolouge, old Faust was introduced, the choir began each time he tried to drink from the chalice, and Faust sold his soul. But when the actors switched so Faust could "be young" again, that blew all theories that this replacement, if he was, was a stagehand. 

The second act had everyone much more interested. There were still some spaced out people, yes, but mostly, everyone had their eyes on the stage. As the opera was still in Italian, not much was understood word wise, but the actions gave enough of an idea of what was happening.

By the third act, everyone was silent and on the edge of their seats. The arias sung by Faust were breath taking. Even Marguerite's Jewel Song, possibly the most well known song of the opera, couldn't compare to Faust's voice. She was good, but not great. This seemed to be a very popular opinion. 

The fourth and fifth act were much the same. At the end if the fifth act, with the grand finale of Marguerite going to Heaven and Faust to Hell, the audience gave a standing ovation. Dean hadn't planned on staying for the gala afterwords, but now, he had to meet the new Faust.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Sam was walking through the back halls, he was stopped by a rushing Crowley. "Colt? I've got everyone at that damnable gala asking where you are. Get up and out there!"

Sam was flustered. "Sir, I really don't think galas are-"

Crowley cut him off. "You took that part, you take all fame, publicity, etcetera, with it. Got that? Now, clean up and grab one of the suits from the costume room. You can't go out and impress the patrons in plaid."  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
After finding a suit that looked like it could pass in this time period and that fit him, which was much harder than expected, Sam stood at the door to where the banquet hall was. He took a deep breath, put on a fake smile, and walked in. 

The lavish decor, amount of people, and stench of every type of alcohol under the sun made a very overwhelming whirl of sensations for Sam. But he fought down the wave of nausea, and kept walking. Immediatly he felt a hand on his shoulder. Sam spun around to face a much shorter woman leaning on the wall, cocktail in hand. "Nice job on stage. Haven't seen that talent in years. What's your name?" Her words were slightly slurred, but she seemed focused enough. 

"Sam Colt, miss." He was keeping as formal as possible to eacape any mishaps. And while he at it, he wasn't going to touch a drop of those drinks.

"Nice manners, but you can crop it. You're Azazel's kid, huh?" The woman asked, giving him a once over with her deep brown eyes. 

Sam gulped. "Uh, yeah. Did you know him?"

"We were business associates for a few years before his untimely passing," Sam remained as stolid as possible as she mentioned it. It had been almost a year, but it still hurt like a bitch. "I'm Megra Masters." She extended a purple gloved hand that matched her glittering dress. 

Sam took it, shaking her hand. "Lovely to meet you, Miss Masters." She rolled her eyes at the formal name.

"Call me Meg. Miss Masters makes me sound like a teacher from 1875." Meg chuckled at her joke. Sam laughed softly along with her. "You know, that Winchester boy has been looking for you." 

"Really?" Sam pursed his lips. Damn, had he really done that well? 

Meg smirked and nodded. "He's over there, by the bar. Hopefully, he's not testing any models tonight." She flicked her wrist in Dean's direction. The man in question was talking with the bartender, whiskey in hand. 

"You sure I should go up? I mean-" Sam was saved from breaching rambling territory by an interrupting Meg. 

"Look. Just go up to the bar and sit. Four seats away from him is okay, but no more than seven. He might not spot you, though that would take a blind person to accomplish that. Just sit, wait. Bartender moves, Winchester's focus goes with him. He'll spot you, and bang, you'll start talking. Sinple," Meg explained. While that was most certainly not simple, Sam just nodded and told her he had it. Time to test it.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean was having a grand old time chatting with the bartender when a tall man sat about five seats away. Or was it four? Dean shook his head and looked over where the bartender was going. It took him a moment, but he knew why that face was so recognizable. It was the kid who sand Faust. Dean had decided to stay at this stupid party for the chance to talk to this guy, and fate had just about dropped him in his lap. Dean waited until the other man ordered, put on his most charming smile, and slid over a few seat. "Heya, kid. My name's Dean Winchester, and I gotta say, you were pretty good tonight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, readers. This story is going on the back burner for now. I've gotten quite a bit of positive feedback and am NOT going to abandon this thing. It just might not be updated for a while. I need to work on my Samifer Big Bang story, so this might not but updated until that's finished. I will come back, this is just my hiatus. Updates on this storty will be posted on my tumblr, http://missmarvelandothers.tumblr.com under the tag "angel of music fanfiction". Kapish? Good. I love all of you, and have a lovely rest of your day!


	6. Chapter 6

Sam was startled by the advancement. He quickly ordered a glass of water, and turned to answer the man on his right. “Thank you. Glad you enjoyed the show.”

Dean flashed a grin. “No problem. So, who are you?”

Sam hesitated, making sure he used the right name. “Sam Colt.”

Dean nodded. “Nice to know. Were you really the backup for the first singer? Didn't he get sick?”

Sam scratched the back of his head, looking for an answer that wouldn't make him look terrible. Finally, he just decided on the truth. “Yes, the first singer did have to go home sick. As for me being a back-up, I was just the guy who fell in front of Crowley.”

“You fell off stage in front of your manager?” Dean questioned, sipping his glass. 

“No, I tripped while carrying boxes.”

“Were they short on stagehands?”

“Actually, it was the other way around,” Sam sighed, “They didn't have enough singers. I’m just a stagehand who got lucky.”

Dean was silent for a few seconds before replying. “Good one, kid.”

Sam tilted his head. “What?”

“Great joke. You had me for a second there. There’s no way a stagehand could sing like that.”

Sam went quiet for a few minutes, which was the amount of time it took for Dean to grasp at the concept. “Wait, you’re serious? How the hell did Crowley pass you up?”

Sam shrugged. “He was looking for stagehands, not singers. I'm happy with both.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “There's no way he can shove you back to being a stagehand after that.”

“Depends on what he wants.” Sam caught a glimpse of something in his left eye. “Excuse me,” he said, before getting up and walking in that direction.

Dean was stunned. How the hell had this stagehand become such an amazing singer? And what did he run off to see? And why did he seem so damn familiar? For some reason, Dean saw something recognizable in his eyes. Maybe it was just the color. Dad had similar ones, though Sam’s had far more gold in them. Weird. Dean just went back to his drink, promising to himself to look more into this… Sam kid. 

Dean froze, grasping on the name. Sam, just like… no. There was no way he was still alive, not after the fire. But… Dean carried hope. And that was going to screw him over eventually, he knew. This Sam had no idea who he was. But would it hurt to poke around a little?

~~~~~

Crowley had turned in early from the party, and was at his desk writing when none other than dear darling Abbadonna barged in, furious. “Explain what in the name of God happened out on that stage. Now.”

Crowley didn’t even look up. “Abby, dear, being more specific helps quite a bit.”

Abby rolled her eyes and huffed with exasperation. “I mean, with the new brat. He stole my spotlight! You cannot keep him,” she stated.

Crowley took a sip of his tea and said, “Had I known he was this good, I would have taken him in a long time ago. He's a crowd pleaser, talented, attractive, and smart. He'll learn his place.”

Abby slammed her hands on his desk, rattling his teacup. “You listen to me, Fergus Crowley. You might run this place, but I rule it. And my throne is just that, mine. So put that kid in anything more than a background role and I swear I will throw your ass into the catacombs so deep not even the Phantom can find you. Do you hear me?” 

Crowley nodded his head rigorously. “Of course, Abby, darling. He'll stay a stagehand, just like he was. Everyone will forget him and that stage will be under your rule in no time.”

Abby stood up and smirked. “As it should be.” She turned, skirt whirling behind her, and walked out to the party, leaving Crowley shaken. 

~~~~~  
Sam walked quickly after the figure he spotted, before accidentally running into a much shorter bearded man. “Oh, sorry… Chuck?”

Chuck smiled. “Yep, just good ol’ me. You were really good on stage tonight, I hope you know that.”

Sam smiled back and added a curt nod. “Thank you, sir. I'm glad you enjoyed it.”

“You remind me of an old singer I saw once, Nicholas Milton. Ever heard of him?”

Sam shook his head. “No, I haven't.”

“Ah.” Chuck looked away, in thought for a moment, before asking, “So, finding any more feathers?”

It took Sam a minute to get what he was referencing, but then he remembered his issue with the large amount of feathers that seemed to accumulate around him when he started working at the opera house. “Not really,” they stopped mostly after Sam became the Phantom’s student. He wondered if the Phantom had anything to do with them, “I find a few here and there, but not many anymore.”

Chuck nodded. “Just wondering. Well, I'll leave you to navigate this place yourself. Have fun!” The man turned and walked to another group.

Sam watched him go, then slipped out a back door to the upstairs storage area. He followed the long halls to the catwalk above the stage. He stopped, looking across. Had he lost the Phantom? Had he even seen him at all?

Sam looked back up, and spotted the Phantom, arms crossed with an expression that read, “Hurry up, stupid!” before running out of sight. Sam ran across the catwalk after the fleeting figure. How was he so fast? 

Left and right, Sam ran through the upper level. Every time he tried to stop, there was a glimpse of the stupid Phantom. His mask, flash of a cape around the corner, or just him standing, laughing his ass off at Sam. Just when he was in Sam's grasp, he’d disappear again. Finally, Sam got what he wanted. A game of cat and mouse, only this was a way to lead him somewhere. Well, two could play at that game. 

The Phantom appeared at the left corner, Sam turned right. The Phantom appeared in front of him, Sam went backwards. This worked for a time, until the Phantom ended up catching on. This wasn't evident, until he got Sam cornered.

Just as Sam was thinking he had the upper hand, he was lead straight into a storage room. Smart move, dumbass, he thought, spotting the shadow of the Phantom approaching. He backed into a corner, throwing his arms up in a defensive position and looking away. The Phantom’s footsteps stopped a few feet before him. Sam looked up tentatively. The Phantom was looking at his with his head cocked to one side, like a bird or a cat or something. Sam didn't see him geared to attack, so he let his arms down, still tense. “What the hell?” Sam asked, breaking the silence.

“I just wanted to tell you how well you did,” The Phantom said, still confused. 

“I’m pretty sure acting like a goddamn serial killer wasn't the way to go!” Sam snapped. 

The Phantom’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped forward. “I wasn't.”

Sam rolled his eyes. Was it a way to play off this ghost’s anger? Maybe. Was it dangerous? Probably. “Yeah, luring me along, chasing me, and cornering me aren't creepy tactics at all.”

“Well, I can't just walk up and tap you on the shoulder!” The Phantom threw his arms out, exasperated.

“Ah, yes. Because a scary guy in a mask can't pass for a normal human!” Sam crossed his arms and glared.

“Sam, you don't understand.”

“Oh, I think I do.” Sam said, snatching the Phantom’s mask. And what he saw made him promptly drop the porcelain object, the shattering of it being the only noise in the horrified silence. A huge amount of scar tissue was built up, but not enough. In places it almost seemed like his flesh was sloughing off his face. Blisters were everywhere, and most of them had been opened, leaving the telltale mark of red. On his cheekbones, the flesh was so bad you could see bone in places. 

The Phantom tried to cover his face with his hands. “What have you done?” He howled, teeth bared and gritted. He was seething. But the damage had already been done. 

“I-I…” Sam stuttered, at a loss. So he did the completely and most logical thing he could think of at that moment. He ran like hell towards the party, where he knew the Phantom would not and absolutely could not follow. 

That left Lucifer to his own thoughts. Lucifer sunk to his knees, letting go of his face. Sam was going to be it! The one! And then he took the mask away, it always happened like that. They grabbed the mask and ran away. And every time, it hurt more than the last. And this time Lucifer was sick and tired of it. He knew he was hideous, why keep trying to find someone who wouldn't look at him like a freak. Lucifer chuckled at that. Sure, buddy. Wings, an indefinite life span that lasted longer than anyone else's, and a face that made even the most gore obsessed person scream. Yep, just the picture perfect definition of normal! Freak was to Lucifer as beautiful and amazing were to Sam. 

Oh. 

Maybe that’s why this time it hurt so much more.

Because… he fell in love.

Wasn't fate kind? Give him the most amazing creation in the world, and rip it away when it was just inches away. How cliche it was. How fitting. Lucifer rubbed at his eyes, feeling tears. No, no tears. He wouldn't cry. Instead he concentrated all his anger, all his misery, and all his heartbreak, and condensed it into one long scream that echoed through the opera house, shattering the nearby glass, and finding its way into the ears of every person there, especially into those of the one who caused him all this grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, shit. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	7. Chapter 7

Sam snuck back into the party with relative ease. Excuses of “needing air” or “smoke break” were tossed around carelessly. Anything to get away from the image seared into his mind; Lucifer, clutching the deformed part of his face, looking absolutely shattered. Sam sat back down at the bar, rethinking his decision of banning alcohol from his system, when a scream that sounded straight from a horror movie rang through the room. 

Sam watched as panic ran through the room. People were rushing to leave, and others were encouraging people to get out. Sam just sat at the bar, head down. He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Sam right? You should get out.” 

Sam recognized the voice of the speaker, but did not turn around. “Why? Mr. Winchester, with all due respect, it really can't be that bad.”

“It’s Dean to you,” he said, “And I hope you're joking. Are you deaf? That’s the Phantom, and he’s been set off.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, Phantom. That old ghost story. Newsflash, ghosts aren't real.”

Dean paused, thinking. “Since you won't leave, looks like you should come with me.” 

Sam snorted. “I don't think this is something you can just shoot in the head and call it a day.”

Dean smirked. “That's what you think. Follow me.” He walked out to the door, glancing back. Sam, feeling slightly obligated, stood and followed him. 

Dean led him out to the parking lots, where Dean pulled out a set of car keys. He walked over to a black classic muscle car, made by Chevrolet by the silver letters on the trunk. Dean walked over to the trunk and unlocked it, lifting up the floor, revealing a compartment filled with arms of all sorts, some Sam had never seen before. 

“You're not just a gun maker, are you.” 

Dean grinned. “Nope. Most of these aren't even my make. But they're wonderful. Can you shoot?”

Sam proved his mark by picking up a pistol and shooting three branches off a nearby tree. Dean wolfwhistled. “Damn! You're good!”

“My dad taught me. Big part of our family history.”

“Ho- wait. Sam Colt, as in, Samuel Colt? The gunmaker?” 

Sam nodded. “He’s my dad’s great-grandfather times five.” 

Dean smirked. “Don't that make him yours times six?”

Sam shrugged. “In a way. Not by blood though.”

Dean paused for a minute. This kid had his brother’s eyes and name, and just so happened to be adopted. This kept getting more and more suspicious. Dean shoved those thoughts to the back of his head, pulling out another revolver, this one looking much older in style. He slammed the trunk shut. “Come on. This might be another chance to get that Phantom.” 

Sam and Dean raced back to the opera house, passing through throngs of people. Finally, they got to the attic, where the screams seemed to be coming from. When they got there, Dean took the lead, pointing his gun and going in a half circle, looking for the Phantom. Nothing.

“Dammit! He’s gone.” Dean looked around once more, trying to see where he went. Sam stepped forward, looking up. 

“Look.” Sam pointed at the ceiling. A trapdoor was above them. Dean followed Sam’s action. 

“Well I’ll be damned. Come on, Sammy. Let’s go catch this guy.”

“Did you just call me Sammy?” Sam raised an eyebrow. 

“It slipped out, I’m sorry. Now do we want this guy or what? Get that crate.” Dean pointed to a corner where a crate stood. God, Dean, be a little more obvious won't you? He’s not your little brother. 

Sammy? God, even Dad only called him that occasionally. Whatever. Sam pulled the crate over, setting it below the trap door. He stood on it, pulling down the trapdoor and climbing through. He kneeled on the ledge and pulled Dean through.

The trapdoor lead straight to the roof. Dean sat down on a gargoyle’s back. “I can't believe it! He escaped, again!”

“Why are you so caught up in catching him anyway? What did he do, kick your dog?” Sam asked.

“No, but things like him need to be taken out before someone gets hurt.”

“He wouldn't hurt anything!”

“1888. Two found dead, throats slit. 1889, someone's dead again. Three more times that year. By 1900, over two hundred people were killed in various ways. And that number has only stacked higher as time went on. Most abandoned the belief and figured this ‘Phantom’ was a scapegoat, but my family and I, we know the truth.”

Sam was thunderstruck. In less than twenty years, more than two hundred were dead by the Phantom’s hand? That was… holy shit. Sam sat down, horrified. That couldn't be right! The Phantom was gentle, maybe not exactly super good with people, but he was kind and sweet, with a passion for his music. “That can't… he’s not…”

Dean looked at him funny. “I thought you said that you didn't believe in the Phantom.”

Shit. “I… I…”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You don't just believe in him, you know him!”

Sam just sat there, looking at the ground. His powerful, quiet Phantom, his talented, creative teacher, his kind and gentle Lucifer… the one he shoved away and ran from. He ripped off that damn mask and ran away in… fear. He ran because he was afraid. Wow, Sam. Great fucking job. And now Dean knew. 

Dean sighed. “Seriously? What did he do for you?” 

“Trained me to be a singer. Do you really think I could have done that well on the stage without training?”

Dean was astonished. “You took music lessons from a monster?” 

“He’s not a monster!”

“Mark my words, Colt. He’s playing you. This will burn you.” 

Who did this stuck up ass think he was? Sam turned away, clutching his temples. Ugh, his head hurt too much for this. But Dean wouldn't back off. He grabbed Sam’s shoulder. “Kid, you have to liste-” 

“I don't have to do __anything __!” Sam shouted. He looked up at the sky, and saw the falling statue, headed straight for Dean. Sam jumped, shoving Dean out of the way before the statue crashed, shattering into pieces. Sam got up, helping Dean up.

“What happened?” Dean saw the debris. 

“Loose statue. Got knocked down. Almost killed you.” Sam kicked a shattered wing. “We’re probably not going to find the Phantom tonight, so I'm going back to get my things and go home.” Sam climbed through the trapdoor, and went to his dressing room, completely ignoring Dean and leaving him to do whatever he was going to do.

Sam shut the door to his dressing room, changing his clothes and sitting down on a chair. He buried his face in his hands. His head still hurt so much, and add in the guilt of hurting Lucifer and Dean’s words, and you achieved a very done Sam. He softly began to sing a lullaby. It was the lullaby Lucifer taught him, and still was one of the most beautiful songs he’d ever heard. By the time he got to the third verse, he heard a soft, familiar voice join in. It couldn't be… none the less, Sam kept singing. The soft voice came closer, moving behind Sam. He felt gentle hands settle on his shoulders. 

Sam finished the song, staying silent. The voice behind him hummed softly, running his fingers through Sam’s hair. Sam finally turned around, looking back up at thr Phantom, no, Lucifer. His mask was back on, as well as his gentle smile. Lucifer gently wiped away the tears Sam hadn't known he’d shed, looking down at Sam. 

Sam had no idea what to say. “I’m sorry” wouldn't fly by, and “It wasn't that bad” was a blatant lie. So he sat, silent, until he responded, saying, “Thank you.”

Lucifer tilted his head, in his usual gesture of confusion. “What for?”

“For teaching me. I don't think I could have gotten any of this without you.”

Lucifer smiled, happy with the praise. “I may have taught you a few things, but it was all on you.”

Sam grabbed his hand. “Thank you nonetheless.” 

Lucifer leaned down. “Of course, Sam. Anything for you.”

Sam smiled and then, on pure impulse, leaned up and kissed Lucifer.

Oh God. This was amazing. No, better than that. The moment their lips touched, electricity shocked through their bodies. Sam reached up, wrapping his arms around Lucifer’s neck, while Lucifer left his resting on the back of the chair. When Sam finally let go, he looked up again at Lucifer. 

Lucifer was shocked. The one who had ran from him earlier after seeing what was underneath his mask was now __kissing __him. When Sam looked up at him, all smiles and pretty eyes, Lucifer wanted to run or fly away as fast as he could. But some part of him called to stay, sit with Sam, keep him close. Oh god…

Sam watched Lucifer go shock still. He silently begged that Lucifer wouldn't run. After a minute or so of silence, Sam looked away, mumbling an apology. He didn't expect Lucifer to lean over and kiss him back. But, that didn't mean it wasn't welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing with this story anymore lol


End file.
